patroclus wept
by team effort
Summary: it is forbidden to love in the capitol. —cato/thresh; for cherie


His escort claps a hand on his shoulder and tells him he's the best prospect to come out of the District in a long time.

"Big, for your age," the older man remarks, gripping his bicep, testing the rigidity of it. "Powerful." Eager, gold-limned eyes rove over every dark inch of flesh and muscle, already thinking of stories to spin. "I think you'll do quite nicely, yes, though... hmm." Clicking his tongue, he adds, "Let's see the rest of you, shall we? If you don't mind..."

Head bowed, he does as he's told, stripping off his work clothes until he's fully naked in the carriage of the train. Cool air piped in through vents in the ceiling make his skin prickle, but he ignores the feeling and keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. The thin lips of the escort spread open in a smile.

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Where the Districts are subdued, restrained in thought and impulse under a perpetual yoke as constant as the sky is gray in 12, the Capitol is a place of mindless, opulent excess. Rue, his partner, peers through the windows as they pull into the station, awed into silence. A jumble of colors greets them when they step onto the platform, gaudy faces clamoring to see the new Tributes for the first time. Their stares cut through him like a cold wind.

At dinner, he eats only a modest share of the food provided and offers the rest to Rue - she's so thin and small, he feels she'll need it more than he will. For an hour, he lies on his bed and closes his eyes, trying to sleep. He can hear shouts below him, glasses clinking together in celebration. Celebrating him. There's an irony to that, he thinks.

In the middle of the night, he bolts awake, breathing hard. Bad dream. The cotton shirt he'd slipped on is damp, sour with the stink of his fear. Not quite thinking, he presses the call button located on the stand to his right and asks for a glass of water.

Within a few minutes, he hears the latch turn and sees the door open. A girl enters carrying a full cup between her hands - he recognizes her as one of the servers from their meal. She remains calmly demure while he drinks, arms folded neatly behind her back. Dark as the room is, he can make out a few of her features - slender, brown hair wound into a tight braid around her head, long limbs and a pointed nose.

"Thank you," he manages to say eventually.

The girl says nothing, continuing to stand patiently by his bedside. When he gives her the empty cup, she inclines her waist gently in a faint bow before turning away and taking the same mincing steps back towards the exit, out into the hallway.

"Wait."

Stopping in her tracks, she turns again to regard him in silence. An anxious ringing has started in the back of his skull, and he can feel his heart race at what he plans to ask.

"Are you..."

Embarrassed, he tells her to come closer. He can see the shape of her ear bent low to listen, smell the faint scent of soap on her body. "Could you stay? For tonight. If it's not too much trouble."

A light has flickered on below them, illuminating her face more clearly. In the soft glow, her eyes are pale blue and wide. Slim fingers brush against his cheek, pleasantly smooth to his own, calloused from years of heavy work in the fields. With more than just a little guilt, he pulls her to his chest - she does not resist - and presses a clumsy kiss against her mouth, tasting the pure, clean taste of her. His tongue finds its way past her teeth, seeking her own. Encountering only a hard, rounded nub still rough with scarring, he pulls away in surprise, pushing her off with more force than intended. Startled, the girl stumbles and knocks the glass onto the ground where it shatters with an audible crack.

The two of them are still for a moment, shocked, hurt. Eventually, she picks herself back up and starts gathering the pieces back together. He gets down to help her. Her elbow jostles him and she flinches, pulling her arm back.

"I'm sorry," are the only words he can speak as she sweeps the shards into a dustpan. Hastily, she flees downstairs, spindly legs beating a swift retreat, and he tries to think of what else he should have said, what else he should have done. All he ends up with is a bad taste in the back of his throat.

He does not sleep for the remainder of that night, and in the morning, the girl has gone.

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There are certain truths known in the Capitol that are rarely spoken of, but remain true nonetheless.

One: The Tributes from District 2 are trained from early childhood for the express purpose of competing in and winning the Hunger Games. Death in battle is the most honorable death; to shirk the duties of a District raised since Dark Days in loyal servitude to the Capitol is the greatest offense any man or woman may commit.

Two: It is forbidden for Tributes to love; their bodies were promised to the Capitol at birth, their hearts and spirits as well; blood given freely for blood shed long ago. Theirs is the will of the Capitol for now and forever.

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His parents called him Thresh for the machine, for the harvest. Thresh, a laborer's name. Thresh, like his purpose. Live and serve.

His younger brothers called him Ox for his size and strength. Ox, who toils in the fields under the beating sun, relentless, untiring. By 14, the sheer breadth of his back was more than two of the toughest men in the District combined.

Here, he is no longer alone.

Different stations are set up around the training center, each boasting a unique skill to learn or, for some, to improve upon before the Games begin. Part of it is intimidation; the others have to learn that he's no weakling, that he's as good as the rest of the competition, maybe even better. Rue disappears as soon as they get to the ropes and he gives up trying to track her down.

Tributes from the first four Districts are gathered near the weapons racks, weighing swords and hefting spears. They glance at him as he approaches, sizing him up to see if he's worthy of attention. One of them, a blonde boy, continues to watch after the others have gone off in their separate directions. Three sets of weights are lined up on a sturdy metal chest. He picks the heaviest from the third set, lifts it, straining, and tosses it at a nearby target. The weighted ball collides and crunches into the model's outermost shell. Pieces of hardened polymer dust the floor. His observer glowers.

He goes on to four more stations - archery, plant identification, hand-to-hand combat, knife throwing - before pausing by the wrestling mat. The blonde boy has reached the mat as well.

"Joining?" the trainer asks. He nods.

His opponent sneers and settles into a crouch, hands spread. They circle each other, tensed, while other Tributes spectate. The blonde boy is the first to lunge, slamming into him with a ferocity that almost drives the air from his lungs. Twisting from underneath his challenger, he wraps an arm around the boy's neck and attempts a choke hold, though the boy quickly wriggles free.

In the end, it's declared a tie. They're both hunched onto their stomachs when it's over, flushed and panting for breath. A hard look has settled into the eyes of the other boy, his chin lifted high. Pride runs off him like sweat. Scowling, he rejoins his companions from earlier and stalks into the lockers.

Rue reappears shortly after, tousled but well. He catches the eye of his opponent near the elevator, and as the boy stares, he meets his gaze brazenly, a steady warmth pooling in his gut.

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The boy's name is Cato.

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He doesn't talk much at the table, wolfing down supper before setting his empty plate aside. The escort, Tarsus, calls for him but he doesn't answer, headed for the balcony.

The sun has started to set and shades of orange and red creep over the buildings. Streetlamps and illuminated walkways are powering on, threading through the city like a tangle of wires. Here it is peaceful. No one around to bother him.

His interviews will begin in two days and the Games in three. Though he's still not entirely familiar with how it's all meant to proceed, he suspects he'll be able to learn soon enough.

On the screen, Tarsus says he will be the Bull. Silent but strong. Rue will be his opposite - light, swift, an innocent spirit of the forest. Play up their strengths, their best characteristics in line with their heritage, and they might stand a chance. Otherwise - he doesn't need to be taught what will happen then.

Footsteps to his left alert him to the presence of someone else coming up. With mild surprise, he notes that it's his rival from the mats. Cato's training uniform fits snugly around his broad chest, a sheen of perspiration shining on his brow. Brawny hands curl into fists as he discovers that he's not alone either.

"You," the boy sneers. "I remember you. Think you're special, huh? That you beat me yesterday?"

Part of him struggles to answer. Twos are always arrogant; in District 11, Cato might have been the kind of Peacekeeper who whipped workers for stopping to rest, full of self-satisfaction and callow surety in their own rank. He wonders if it would bring him any pleasure to wipe the smirk off of Cato's face.

Instead, he chooses not to reply.

"Just a training match," Cato goes on. "Don't forget. You might think you're decent now, but out there, in the arena, I'll cut you down like the animal you are." He spits. "That's all your District is. Cattle. They should ship the lot of you over to 10; maybe you'd finally be useful for something."

Cato gets up close, and he can see that the boy is not as tall as he is, a few inches shorter than expected. "Why don't you talk back, farm boy? Afraid?"

Reaching out to grab him by the jaw, Cato makes him look down, see his glare. "I asked you a question."

Abruptly, he grasps Cato's wrist and tugs it from his chin. It pulls away with less resistance than he would have assumed from the blonde - the unexpectedness of it, probably. Cato hisses and swats him off, catching him across the mouth. A drop of blood spreads across his tongue, coppery. He licks his lips. Cato looks shaken.

"Don't you touch me again," he growls, trying to fill his voice with as much menace as he can. "Or I'll kill you."

He can't help but think how false it sounds; beneath the bravado is a real sense of apprehension, a crack in an already flimsy suit of armor. He doesn't speak. Cato's features contort into an expression that's almost painful.

"Fucking freak. You should have been an Avox, for all the good that tongue does."

Unbidden, his mind returns to the girl who brought him water when he was afraid. Inside, he aches with a pain he cannot identify. Outside, he is flesh and stone, uttering not a single word as Cato stumbles back towards the lifts. When the boy has left, he dabs at his mouth and gazes at the blood on his fingertip, red as sunset, raw.

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Tarsus makes him memorize his lines for the interview, flapping his hands about nervously. "Remember, be brooding. Be gruff. That's your angle, that's what they want to see and hear when they televise everything - you're the Bull, so play the part and it'll be alright."

With Caesar, he tries to deliver the performance as best he can. He keeps his answers to the point, brief. As he is shaking Caesar's hand, he imagines how easy it would be to crush all those bones in a single motion. How pliant. Tarsus beams and Rue offers a shy smile when he returns to the lobby.

Cato's interview had been before him. In front of cameras, he is as proud as ever, hair purposefully mussed to give him an air of rebellious indifference for the formalities of the Capitol. His eyes were lazy and pompous as he rattled off answers, a natural.

They are saying that he and Cato are currently top contenders in the bidding pools. Somehow it has become more than just a clash of individuals, but of Districts as well - 2 versus 11. Light and dark. Tarsus shows him the bets that have been placed in his name, visibly excited. Millions of credits just in the last hour, enough to provide for entire sectors of 11 and still have more than enough to spare for years to follow. Every bit of it is irrelevant.

He goes into the bathroom to piss and wash his hands. Cato is already by the sinks, water running freely from the tap as he looks into the mirror and rubs at his cheeks. Exhaustion shifts into anger as he sees that Thresh has come in as well.

"Look who it is," he remarks sardonically. "Guess you're as dumb on stage as you are off of it."

Paying no mind to the jeers, he does his business in a urinal and zips up his trousers. As he is turning around, he sees Cato's head whip back to the glass, cheeks ruddy.

It might not mean anything.

But-

Cato mutters something and he glances at his rival sharply. "The fuck are you staring at?" the other boy snaps. "Get your eyes off of me. It's disgusting how much you want it."

He is struck by a sudden realization as clear as day. An itch builds in his throat until he cannot hold it in anymore and lets out a chuckle, low and rumbling.

"Something funny, freak?" Drawing back a fist, Cato says, "I swear, if you don't stop, I'll take your head off your body before we even get to-"

" _Cato_."

The voice cuts through the tension cleanly as a knife, full of authority. Pivoting, he can see the shape of a man filling up the space of the doorway, frame large and well-muscled. His head has been shaved bald, brow furrowed and severe. "Stop wasting time and get moving. We've still got another session to make."

"He-"

"I don't have time for excuses, _boy_." Whoever the man is, he clearly is someone important to Cato. A mentor? Sifting through old footage of past Games in his head, he's able to come up with a name at last: Brutus. "Get your things and leave. Enobaria has already gone back." Without another word, he turns away and leaves as quickly as he had come.

A sullen moment passes before Cato's jaw unclenches and the cords in his thick neck relax. Still, it doesn't mean that his anger's vanished. "Watch yourself, 11," he snarls. "I'll get you eventually, and when I do, it'll be painful. Think I'll take my time with you. Let you suffer." Cato's mouth twitches in a nasty grin as he deliberately flicks the water off his fingers onto his suit and makes to depart.

Then and there, he decides to speak up.

"Want what?" he asks. Cato stops perfectly still. "You?" He shakes his head. "A spoiled, overconfident whelp - you're no more important than any of us are. I could never want that."

It is quiet. Water drips softly down the drain.

Cato looks at him, eyes flinty, gleaming. Opens his mouth but can't find anything to say. He cannot move; his body has gone rigid. Only when the sound of Cato's footsteps have disappeared around the corner does he let out the breath he's been holding.

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Rue falls asleep on the train ride back to their quarters. He holds her, so brittle, it would seem, against his bulk. Tarsus is snoring in the adjacent compartment. Outside, lights stream through the windows and splash onto his clothes, his skin, paint him in shimmering colors that are so unlike him, so unlike the black of his skin that he doesn't know what to think of it. He feels so perfectly empty in this strange place, so pure in isolation he could cry.

Tomorrow he will go into the arena, but today-

He decides to stop trying to keep up with the city as it races past him, a sprawling metal-and-stone tapestry that makes his head hurt. Too late to change anything now.

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Everyone else is asleep by the time he reaches the balcony again. It's chilly - there are no heaters on the outside of the residence - but he doesn't mind the cold. Leaning over the guardrail, he peers down at the Capitolites making their way through the streets. Even with the Games looming ahead, there are still parties to be held, last-minute festivities to arrange before it's all cleared away to make way for the morning's proprieties. Their lives are so frivolous - he can't imagine anything must occupy them for too long. Plenty of distractions available to keep them busy when the Games aren't happening.

How small his life must seem to them, despite his size. Just another Tribute, easily replaced the next year.

Eventually, he heads back towards his room, bare feet padding softly along the concrete floor. A figure near the end of the hallway makes him pause. He can see the thick arms, the wide shoulders, all he needs to identify who it is in an instant.

Cato.

Confusion roots him to the spot, not allowing him to move as his rival walks forward, bare-chested with a swagger to his step. _Drunk_ is his first assumption. Some mentors are more lenient with alcohol than others. Or perhaps Cato simply doesn't care.

"You humiliated me," the boy slurs. "In front of Brutus. You fucking piece of scum. Farm trash."

His arm swerves wildly, revealing a jagged piece of glass clutched in his fingers. Pressing himself close to the walls as Cato advances, he prepares himself to run. Cato, apparently oblivious, continues.

"I know what you are. Brutus told me on the train. They do pay a pretty coin for your lot in 11, don't they? Why don't you talk to me, whore? Too scared?"

The other boy's arms wrap around him, trapping him with no room to escape. The glass hovers dangerously close to his neck, Cato's fingers shaking as he forces it deeper against his skin. Blood wells up and trickles down his collar.

"Told me you would spread your legs for your escort. Didn't you, 11? So why won't you do it for me, too?" Cato's voice falters and chokes up as he presses on. "Why won't you just let me - why won't you ever _speak_ , dammit? Think you're too good for me, 11?"

He lets out a weak laugh, his breath sharp with the smell of wine. "I could have any girl I wanted. I fucked that bitch from 1. Let her suck my cock and moan until she was all used up. I could have any of them, but you - _you_ ," he croaks, "never say what you - "

Cato sniffs and the glass slips, not enough for him to pry it away but enough to give him an opportunity. Eyes watering, Cato breathes, "They said you were - "

Without warning, Cato reaches and kisses him on the lips. His eyes flutter open and his hand falls to his side. Cato tastes like salt and grapes, his body feverishly warm as he pulls him even closer, forces his mouth open urgently, desperately.

He thinks that this is not like the girl - not wrong, but not right. He can feel only Cato, feel his warmth and taste the panic on his mouth and sweaty, unsure fingers fumbling at his shorts.

Gently, taking care not to harm him, he pulls his mouth from Cato's and presses a firm hand against the boy's chest, telling him, _No._

Cato blinks, dazed. Then his face crumples and he begins to weep whimpering, ugly tears, head buried against the crook of his neck.

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(It is forbidden to love in the Capitol. But the Capitol is for pleasure, and there are more pleasures than love to be discovered within the city, should one go in search of them.

They claw at each other in the dark, unlearned, new and frightened and lonely. The muscles in Cato's back writhe under his touch, coiled tight underneath a layer of milky skin. Old scars line his body, faded to no more than thin lines in some areas but raised and pink in others. Neither of them have escaped pain, and when Cato arches his throat, head tilted to the sky, mouth open and incoherent - when they collapse against each other, scared of what they have done, he knows they will not live to see themselves whole once more.

He holds Cato until it is time for him to go. The other boy slides off limply, clutching at his hand. "Please," Cato begs, eyes dark. "I don't want to - " And he doesn't have to finish the rest of his sentence, because he knows. He knows stillness, knows how small they are in the grand scheme of Panem, that they will fade away in the morning and nothing will remain but these tiny moments, trembling as boys under the cover of night.

He kisses Cato again, to remind himself of what it's like to be real.)

The Capitol is not a place for love.

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They don't see each other again until the Games have begun.

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Cato finds him in the wheatfield. By then, he has lost track of how many days have passed in the arena. All he knows then is terror. Terror, and the wish to _live_ , more dangerous than any weapon. The arena breaks even the strongest wills, crushes them into sand, and does not spare a single thought for their deaths.

He's found an axe he took off some dead Tribute. A few knives too, though they'd likely be of little use in a fight. When Cato's face breaks through the waving stalks, dirt and blood smeared across his face like paint, his hand shudders and twists with a mind of its own.

This time, he's the one to strike first, bounding through the distance between them with a speed that surprises even himself. Cato looks wounded, the sword he's holding coming up sluggishly in defense. He thinks that it's idiotic, that maybe the District 2 boy wasn't as good as he thought he was. A stupid mistake to make in the Games. Sentiment. The arena is not merciful, and neither should he be.

(Rue is dead and he thinks there could have been hope for her, if she wasn't born in Panem. There might have been hope for him and Cato as well, if they weren't already so ruined.)

Roaring, he prepares to kill.


End file.
